


Words For Another Time

by rosycheeked



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Forgiveness, M/M, POV Draco Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson is a Good Friend, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Rehabilitation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-30 02:29:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18306365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosycheeked/pseuds/rosycheeked
Summary: Draco is definitely not pining for Harry Potter, because Malfoys don't pine, especially not for Potters.In which there is one Malfoy in denial, two wonderful women to help him along, and rather too much emphasis on toast.





	Words For Another Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kaitlyn_Ashryvver_Galathynius](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaitlyn_Ashryvver_Galathynius/gifts).



> Hello!
> 
> Here is yet another little Drarry fic. Not my best, but I'm trying to finish a longer work I've been writing for a while, so we'll see how that goes.
> 
> This fic is dedicated to the lovely Kaitlyn_Ashryver_Galathynius, who provided the prompt that inspired it.
> 
> E

Draco’s toast is bland.

He finished the marmalade yesterday and forgot to grab some on his way home from Hogwarts. 

So he toasted a slice of bread, and with nothing to put on it he’s just eating it plain.

It crunches between his teeth. Draco hates bland toast.

Nevertheless, he goes to take another bite—and promptly chokes as Pansy pops right out of his Floo, hopping to her feet with a sunny smile.

“Draco, darling!” she greets him.

He chews his bite of toast aggressively and swallows pointedly before replying. “Pansy. I was having my breakfast. What do you what?”

Unfortunately, she does not seem to be at all deterred by his curtness. “Well, I thought you might like some company!” Lie. There is definitely a reason. “Gosh, Draco, your breakfasts have gotten sadder and sadder. What are you eating, a piece of toast? With nothing on it?” She tuts. “And you’ve gone and gotten sadder with them! Whatever happened to the lively Draco Malfoy of yesteryear?”

Draco raises a dubious eyebrow. “Was I ever lively?”

Pansy sighs. “You know that’s not the point, dear. The point is, you’ve become as bland as your plain old piece of toast! You’re always so gloomy, Draco. When was the last time you were enthusiastic about anything but—“ Her mouth shuts with a clack, then.

And there it is. The true reason why she’s here. “Anything but what, Pansy?” he drawls, his face a mask of schooled indifference.

“Draco, I—you, the—“ She takes a deep breath. “Draco, you know I honestly worry about you, right? I’ve known you for practically my whole life, you’re one of the closest friends I have.

“And I want you to have some _companionship_ , Draco, someone else to look out for you, someone to be more than friends with. So here I am, trying to set you up, trying to gauge your reaction—and imagine my surprise when I see you looking at—looking at Harry Potter like he’s hung the damn moon! What was I meant to think, Draco?

“After some thought, though, some deliberation, I found myself to be...not entirely surprised. You were always obsessed with him. But then I kept watching and you know what I saw? I saw you, Draco, always gazing after him.

“And now I’m worried for you, still, but I’m worried about something else, now, something more. You care about him, Draco. I can see it in your eyes. So why haven’t you said anything? Why haven’t you done anything? Why do you still act like you hate each other when you so obviously _don’t_?”

She clears her throat, clearly embarrassed by all the talking. Draco doesn’t know what to say. He’s never heard Pansy say so many serious things in quick succession before. He didn’t think she cared so much; clearly he was mistaken, as she has been watching him watch Potter for what sounds like a while now, biding her time to ambush him about his decidedly morose life (and breakfasts).

“Pansy, I—Potter and I, we—“

“Spit it out, Draco, you can do it.”

“There’s nothing,” he decides definitively. “You were seeing things.” Okay, there is no way Pansy was falling for that, but it’s worth a try, right?

“Uh huh. And Weasley was actually the Chosen One all along.” Now she has a look on her face. Draco is wary of that look; it is an evil, scheming, terrible look. “Draco, you know...you promised honesty after the whole thing with the War, when you lied to us so we would blindly follow you.” She blinks, her eyes wide and innocent and doe-like and _ugh_ , she’s guilt-tripping him. The nerve!

“Look, I—I mean, I just think that if Potter’s never going to—“

— _to love me_ , Draco thinks. But instead he says:

“—to want me, then I might as well make him hate me.” He winces at how self-deprecating that sounds. It was a lot more logical in his head, for sure.

Pansy looks at him quizzically. “Haven’t you been doing that this whole time? You’ve been rivals since—“

Draco sees it dawn on her. Her eyes light with realization, with understanding.

“How long has this been going on, Draco?”

He says nothing. She already knows, anyway.

And there it is! The pity. This was why he hadn’t told her. Because she would only pity him, pity his nonexistent chances at Potter actually ( _loving_ ) wanting him back.

Pansy opens her mouth. And closes it. They sit in silence for a long time. 

This is friendship at its best, Draco thinks to himself. Those little forevers as the seconds slip by, one after another, when you don’t feel like you have to say anything at all.

This is what Draco truly treasures: Pansy’s hand on his, knowing that she is going to be there no matter what.

“Say something to him, Draco,” Pansy tells him, words which would be condescending coming from anyone else. “It’s worth a try. At the very least he’ll forgive you.”

Draco nods. Coming from anyone else it would be dismissive, but Pansy understands.

“Scratch that. I _know_ he’ll forgive you. Draco, darling,” she declares over- dramatically, “no one can resist you.”

And on that note, she spins with a flourish, picks up a delicate pinch of Floo powder, and tosses it in. Hesitating before she steps into the now-roaring green flames, she says over her shoulder, as serious as she’s ever been, “Go for it, Draco.”

Then the smirk returns as she winks (winks!) and steps into the fireplace, directing it to “29 Orchard Street!” The fire roars for a moment more, and then Pansy’s gone. 

His flat seems so quiet without her presence. He feels as empty as it is. Maybe she’s right. Maybe he is lonely.

He finishes his toast anyway. It’s soggy, now, but just as bland.

...

Draco slides gracefully out of the Floo into the ever-grand Headmistress’s office. He’s proud of his smooth entrance all the way until he trips over the edge of his cloak as he stands up, but he soon straightens himself out, dusts the soot off, and clears his throat to declare his presence.

Professor McGonagall places her quill down hurriedly. “Mr. Malfoy!” she greets him. “You’re early.”

He is, in fact, almost two hours earlier than usual. He had felt too stifled in his flat, too restless, so he’d come here. He knows Professor McGonagall won’t mind.

“Sorry about that, Professor,” he replies dutifully. “Is there anything you’d like me to do today?”

He must have some sort of tense look on his face, because her expression relaxes into a sort of understanding. “Draco, I’m retiring this June,” she tells him.

He is struck dumb. First of all, she called him “Draco”—whatever happened to Mr. Malfoy? The way his first name curls around her tongue, her accent as evident as always, makes it seem like she has been calling him Draco this entire time—and yet she’s never done it before. The second thing is that, well, she’s retiring. He supposes that the rehabilitation will be finished by June, and she’s nearing fifty years of teaching, but try as he might, he can’t imagine a Hogwarts without Professor McGonagall.

He’ll miss her, he realizes. Huh.

“And, Draco—“ she breaks into his thoughts, levelling a piercing, soul-seeing look at him; it seems so meaningful, like she’s trying to tell him something. “I don’t want _anything_ to be left unfinished.”

Unfinished? What does she mean, unfinished? They’ll probably finish the rebuilding of Hogwarts within the next month or two, and Draco will likely never come back to Hogwarts after that, so he won’t see Potter again. Or Weasley, or Granger, or any of the others, but really it’s about him and Potter, isn’t it? Potter, who will go right on hating him and then probably forgetting him. Just like that.

McGonagall raises an eyebrow. And that’s when it clicks. This _is_ about him and Potter. That means she knows, then, about his (rather pathetic pining) feelings for Potter. She definitely knows.

Somehow, Draco is not at all surprised. McGonagall’s observation skills could rival Dumbledore’s, and that man knew everything. _Damn meddling professors_ , he thinks, but inwardly he smiles.

He opens his mouth to reply, to say—well, he doesn’t really know what to say, but it doesn’t matter because at that very moment Potter himself bursts through the door. Only he could make such an entrance. Draco is half tempted to give him a round of applause.

“Minerva!” Potter pants, clearly having sprinted here in a hurry. Then he catches sight of Draco, and his expression immediately changes. And Draco doesn’t think it’s a nice change. One moment Potter was tired but happy, and the next his eyes have gone hard, his face stony, and his body language closed off like he’s bracing himself.

Is this really how Potter feels about him? This drastic change from the way he looks at everyone else?

He watches as Potter shakes himself. When had Potter become lost in thought? “So sorry, Minerva, didn’t mean to interrupt, I’ll come back later,” he says in a rush. He whips around and strides out the door, but Draco could have sworn that he glanced back at Draco over his shoulder as he left, with an expression completely different from his default “Malfoy” expression. He had this look in his eyes that Draco can’t name.

It’s fine, Draco decides. It was probably his stupid, hopeful, pining imagination.

He prepares himself to say something to McGonagall again, to continue their discussion from before, but she cuts him off.

“Go on, Draco,” she smiles softly, her stern face transformed into something almost motherly, and nods toward the door.

First Pansy, now McGonagall? The world has gone completely mental today. Clearly.

He believes in them, anyway. He believes in these two women who are telling him to take a chance on them, on Potter, on himself.

He nods at McGonagall, cool and collected and calm.

Okay, maybe not, but he certainly doesn’t bolt away after Potter. He certainly doesn’t sprint down the steps, searching frantically for that stupid messy black mop Potter calls hair. Malfoys don’t bolt. Malfoys aren’t frantic.

God _damn_ it, but this one is.

And when he skids to a stop a few feet behind Potter, who’s still striding along like Draco isn’t there even though he surely knows that he is, Draco finds all the things he wants to say bubbling at his lips, wanting to be freed.

But he doesn’t say, _Potter, I never hated you, even when we were children._

He doesn’t say, _Potter, I don’t want you to hate me._

He doesn’t say, _Potter, you’re beautiful._ (Even though he is, even though he’s the most beautiful thing Draco’s ever seen.)

He doesn’t say, _Potter, I’m in love with you._

He doesn’t say, _Potter, I think I’ve always loved you._

Those are words for another time (which might never come, but God, he’s hoping).

“Potter, wait!” he says.

Is that what he was meant to say?

It doesn’t matter. Potter was never going to—

Draco watches, breathless, as Potter hesitates.

And turns.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> I live for your feedback. ;)
> 
> E


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